


Espionage, True Love, and other Dinner Table Conversations

by kincaidian



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Look how cute they are, M/M, shameless schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kincaidian/pseuds/kincaidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's away on a mission and Q's on the intercom.</p>
<p>...yes, that's it. So sue me for liking schmoop. Merry Christmas, everybody!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Espionage, True Love, and other Dinner Table Conversations

Nearing midnight, with his chair tipped back as far as it would go, Q is counting his teeth.

Q branch is, naturally, nearly deserted. The pale glow of a handful of monitors, a string of fairy lights shedding a quiet sort of light, and the cool, unassuming florescent lights, and that's it by way of illumination.

Q runs his tongue deliberately over the backs of his teeth. It's harder thann he'd imagined; he can't quite grasp where one tooth ennds and the other begins, and on his first count, he'd been horrified when he counted a mere twenty teeth.

He's idly coding a program in his head to connect to one of those scanners for one to check whether one's teeth were all accounted for, when the intercom crackles to life.

"Q?"

Q hums. _Fifteen._

"You'd probably be dead already out here in the trenches."

Q rolls his eyes, and says, "Of course, 007. Whatever you say."

"Death by boredom. Picture the epitaph."

"Unenviable," Q agrees, rapping his fingers on the desk. "How's the target?"

"Arthritic, I'm beginning to suspect. Either that or he's moving so fast my eyes can't catch his movement," Bond adds, in a lightly teasing tone.

Q rolls his eyes again. Someone's strung tinsel around the shoulders of the departmental mascot, a gargoyle in a thoughtful pose just near the entrance. The gargoyle watches Q with a faint air of embarrassment, and Q almost feels sorry for the ugly bastard.

"I'm going to regret explaining accelerated velocity and the relative speed of light to you, aren't I?" he asks, resignedly.

"I shouldn't see why. It was perfectly lovely." There's a slight rustle from his end. Q imagines Bond perched on a straight-backed chair somewhere with the binoculars with built in metal detector Q had built for him. At the time, Bond had given Q a raised eyebrow when he mentioned the metal detector, and Q now wonders whether  it came in handy after all 

"Do you plan to spend the entire night entertaining yourself in my exxpense and mocking my efforts to inject science to your uncoordinated brute force?" Q asks testily.

Bond huffs out a laugh. "It's not as if I have anything better to do."

"Hmm." Q wriggles his toes in his shoes lazily. "Bond. Death by boredom or  castration by rusty garden tools?"

"Boredom." Bond says after a moment's pause.

"No guns, no quick getaways." Q  reminds him.

"Boredom." Bond says definitely.

"Death by crab pliers or a poison dart with snake's venom?"

"What sort of venom?" Bond asks thoughtfully.

"One that paralyses, and causes hallucinations, and possibly could make you develop a craving for human fingernails." Q says, gesturing a little for emphasis.

Bond laughs a little. "Creative. Very good, Q."

"I spent a minute on it." Q says cheerfully. "Now, come on, Bond. Creative murder awaits."

"Should M be informed that the quartermaster is plotting ways to take out agents?" Bond asks, in a lightly amused tone.

"I'm only preparing you for the worst." Q says nonchalantly. "At least now you'll know not to gnaw on any fingernails."

"You're here." Bond says suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Q's  left blinking stupidly at the sudden change of subject. He frowns. "I- what?"

"It's two days to Christmas," Bond says painstakingly. "I'd have thought you would be at home. Or out."

Q mulls this over. He thinks of the empty flat, the unwashed dishes in the sink. Bond's clothes in Q's closet, tangled up in his. Even his bloody flat is waiting for Bond to be done with this assignment and be back already.

Q sighs. "It's possible I've grown a little too used to you being here," he admits, trying to keep his voice level.

Silence on the other end. "I see," Bond says finally, deliberate.

Q swallows, feeling miserable. This was what was so bloody difficult about being involved with someone like Bond. Every step forward was like a dragging a foot deeper into quickksand.

It's possible Q is panicking.

But then Bond says, "Yes, it's quite inconvenient. I-" he breaks off and Q stays very still, his hands clenched on his thighs. "I sometimes find myself talking to you. When you aren't there."

"Oh," Q says.

He begins grinning idiotically.

"I, er," he says, but Bond cuts in with a small chuckle.

"No need to elaborate, Q," he says, and Q briefly entertains sprinting up and down the stairs in joy, but then dismisses it. M, or worse, 007, might hear about it and Q might as well abandon all hope of workplace respect from then on.  "Now, death by tarantula bite or weed-whacker?"

Q grins widely at nothing in particular once more before settling back in his chair.        

**Author's Note:**

> No notes. This was just written out of the power of sheer affection.


End file.
